Instinct
by Jisanna
Summary: Neal Caffrey is acting strange. Only a week after the arrest of two brothers running counterfeit US bills, things start to go wrong. Peter has to figure it all out before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first White Collar Fanfic, hope it does the show justice, because I was terrified to try it out.** **Credit for characters goes to Jeff Eastin and the White Collar crew completely. This story line, however, belongs to me.**

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Neal was acting strange. And it wasn't that he was hiding something _criminal_, or at least, Peter didn't think he was. That famous Burke gut instinct wasn't ratcheting up his suspicion level for that reason, or at least, Peter didn't think it was. Then again, maybe he was just getting soft.

But there had been so many times he'd been wrong about Neal and had jumped to conclusions far too quickly. Of course, Neal had been involved in things, on quite a few occasions, where Peter had been right to jump to said conclusions. Neal himself was just impossible to completely figure out, as his handler had realized over the past few years.

Sighing, Peter ran his hands over his face and sat back in his chair, resting a finger on his chin as he surveyed the bullpen, watching his CI with rapt attention.

As good as the supposedly reformed con was at masking his emotions and blurring the lines that most people were defined by in their lives, even the great Neal Caffrey had his limitations.

Recently, Neal had been acting a little shy of cautious, if such a thing were possible. There was nothing outwardly wrong with the young man, no. His trademark million dollar smile still held naturally in place whenever someone passed by and greeted him, or struck up a conversation because Caffrey looked so damned forlorn when trying to deal with mortgage fraud cases one after the other. Even Diana began to feel sorry for him, Peter could tell, as the day wore on.

What had caught Peter's attention was the fact that Neal kept outrageously within his radius. Guilt gnawed at his stomach as he snuck a reluctant glance at the report he'd quietly ordered for Neal's movements for the past week. There'd been nothing that would cause the Marshals reason to be concerned. But Peter _knew _Neal; he wasn't just a tracking anklet code to him.

Caffrey was always on the move, always fidgeting or chatting, but always needing something to occupy him, to test him. The fact that he had adopted the strange back and forth everyday between the Bureau and his apartment at June's was more than enough to make Peter think that there must be something wrong.

He refused to believe that Neal would just give up old habits suddenly. There had to be something else.

So he watched as the ex-con attempted to focus on the dwindling supply of mortgage fraud files on his desk, clearly determined to not be distracted for at least a little while longer.

Peter couldn't tear his prying eyes off of his friend, not until he resolved that, if Neal were troubled in any way, Neal would come to him. They had gotten to that point by now, right?

The week prior, a local crime syndicate run by brothers had allegedly begun an illegal operation in replicating US dollar bills. That much, the Bureau knew. They hadn't quite mastered the skill, and were looking for someone who could. That was Neal's in. The take down had gone smoothly, without a hitch, and after a couple of days on edge undercover, he hadn't even had his life threatened once. There had been no need for the cavalry to bust in, guns blazing, to save his life.

Peter had let him head home early and get some rest. Even Diana had joked a grudging job well done. Jones had simply slapped him on the back and headed back to the office to handle paperwork.

And Neal wanted to relax, but as the brothers were led away, the tension didn't leave him, something still nagged at the edge of his conscience. The whole thing had been a little too clean, a little too easy.

"You're starting to sound like Mozzie," he berated himself under his breath before he headed home.

Since then, he'd taken it easy and played it safe, but he couldn't brush off the feeling that he was being watched.


	2. Chapter 2

As Peter surveyed the apartment he realized that he should have said something to Neal. He _should _have asked him what was wrong. The hope that, maybe, Neal would trust him enough to come to him had lingered for long enough that it was now too late.

Neal's anklet had gone dark four hours ago.

With tight-lipped apologies, agents at the scene offered aimless condolences to Agent Burke. "What can you do?" One offered. "Once a con, always a con."

But no one else had noticed the ghosts of smudges under Neal's bright eyes the few days before he'd seemed to get better. No one had noticed the weight on the man's shoulders even as he walked with the same swagger he'd always had. Not one person had noticed that, when he thought no one was looking, Neal would let the mask drop, just for a second, before pulling it back on.

And Peter had hesitated for too long.

That morning, at eight o'clock on the dot, Neal had stridden into the Bureau- minus his ridiculous hat, Peter noted- and headed straight for the agent.

"Please tell me we have a case," Neal pleaded, making a show of avoiding the stack of files on his desk.

Peter fought back a smile, adopting his usual tough-luck attitude. "_You _have plenty of cases waiting for you, right where they always are."

"Anything that that actually requires my talents?"

"Alleged talents," Peter warned. "You're slipping, Caffrey."

Neal grinned. "You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?"

"Do I need to remind you that-"

"You could throw me back to prison if you wanted to? Yeah, Peter, I know."

And wasn't Peter glad that Neal was back, then in that moment, without the wary stance and hidden sighs? Neal was productive that morning, slogging through those mortgage fraud cases with renewed energy, like the weight of the sky had been lifted from him only hours before. Peter had sent him home early with nothing more left to do at the office, and had followed suit to great El and Satch at home.

He had awakened to the familiar buzz-and-ring of his phone. His first thought was not Neal Caffrey, for once. Perhaps it should have been.

"Burke," he muttered, mind still fuzzy and within reach of elusive sleep.

"Boss," came Diana's carefully professional voice. A strange surge of lucidity flooded through Peter's brain. "Caffrey cut his anklet."

"What?"

It was as if ice water had replaced his blood, pulsing steadily through his veins. Peter could no longer tell whether his confusion was caused by the early morning call itself, or the subject of discussion.

"We just got the alert. The Marshals want to know if we can handle it, or if we need them on scene.

Silence threaded the static over the line. Hadn't it been only this morning that Neal had begun to act normally again?

"Boss?"

Peter ran a hand over his face, already out of bed and pulling on clothes. _What have you done now, Neal? _"We can handle it. I'll meet you and Jones over there in twenty."

"Already on our way." Then she paused, the quiet loaded with tension and doubt. "Do you really think he'd run, Peter?"

Wasn't that the question that tormented Peter most waking moments? It was one of those questions Peter doubted he'd ever be able to answer. "I don't know," he shook his head, world-weary. "I really don't, Diana."

As Peter stood in front of June's towering mansion, he played over in his head every detail he'd noticed and compartmentalized about Neal in the past few days. Every sigh and joke, the slightest hints that could mean nothing at all. Nothing and everything. What if he really had run? Peter didn't think he could handle that slap in the face. He aired on the side of caution, but could not shake the nagging feeling that something was not right.

"You're not going to find anything out here, Peter," Diana reminded him from the top of the stairs to June's home.

Resigned, Peter made his way up into the apartment of someone who had once been a friend, a partner, but could now be a fugitive.

"I don't think you want to argue with me, Caffrey."

Swirling in the depths of pain and blurred thoughts, Neal managed to make out the words. They were scrambled in his head, the tones and shifts in speech lost to him completely. Neal pulled himself to the forefront of his mind, unwilling to be a prisoner in a head that throbbed with each beat of a heart. His mouth was dry and his hands were lost to him entirely.

He had nothing to manipulate with, and no energy to try to regain the tools of his trade. All he managed was a half-stifled groan, and hated himself for the admission of weakness.

"The great Neal Caffrey," the voice sneered. "Nothing without that silver tongue, are you?"

"What do you want?"

The words slurred, alienated from the mouth they belonged to. Neal wasn't even sure he _had _managed to choke out his response, but he hoped he had because his head was about to explode. He blinked, trying to sift through the dim colours of the world, but unable to catch anything but movement. Was _he _moving? His stomach rolled, sour and unsteady inside of him.

He could almost hear the smile in the voice of his captor. "We'll see. A little patience never hurt anyone, now did it?"


End file.
